a weight pressing over his heart, and knew
that it was his wallet, stuffed to bursting with thousand-dollar bills.

But was this a time to think of money?

No, Malone told himself. This was the time for adventure, for romance,
for love. He looked down at the girl and put his arm around her waist.
She snuggled closer.

He led her easily down the long wide street to his car at the end of the
block. It stood in godlike solitude, a beautiful red Cadillac capable of
going a hundred and ten miles an hour in any gear, equipped with fully
automatic steering and braking, and with stereophonic radio, a hi-fi and
a 3-D set installed in both front and back seats. It was a 1972 job, but
he meant to trade it in on something even better when the 1973 models
came out. In the meantime, he decided, it would do.

He handed the girl in, went round to the other side and slid in under
the wheel. There was soft music playing, somewhere, and a magnificent
sunset appeared ahead of them as Malone pushed a button on the dashboard
and the red Cadillac started off down the wide, empty, wonderfully paved
street into the sunset while he--

The red Cadillac?

The sidewalk became a little harder, and Malone suddenly realized that
he was lying on it. Something terrible had happened; he knew that right
away. He opened his eyes to look for the girl, but the sunset had become
much brighter; his head began to pound with the slow regularity of a
dead-march and he closed his eyes again in a hurry.

The sidewalk swayed a little but he managed to keep his balance on it
somehow, and after a couple of minutes it was quiet again. His head
hurt. Maybe that was the terrible thing that had happened, but Malone
wasn't quite sure. As a matter of fact, he wasn't very sure about
anything, and he started to ask himself questions to make certain he was
all there.

He didn't feel all there. He felt as if several of his parts had been
replaced with second-or even third-hand experimental models, and
something had happened to the experiment. It was even hard to think of
any questions, but after a while he managed to come up with a few.

_What is your name?_

Kenneth Malone.

_Where do you live?_

Washington, D. C.

_What is your work?_

I work for the FBI.

_Then what are you doing on a sidewalk in New York in broad daylight?_

He tried to find an answer to that, but there didn't seem to be any, no
matter where he looked. The only thing he could think of